“Oh, I know your wheels will start turning as they always do, as soon as you see those blank pages before you. Who’s signed up for it?”
Jo found the sign-up sheet and laughed. “Ina Mae, for one. She seems determined to learn everything our little craft corner can offer.”
“It’s the elementary school teacher in her. All those years of decorating bulletin boards. They can’t stop.”
“And Deirdre Patterson’s coming too. She signed up at the end of the wreath workshop.”
“Even after the glued fingers? You must have really stirred up the hobbyist in her. I never thought she’d be inclined toward arts and crafts, what with the damage that can do to one’s manicure.”
“I don’t know. She’s clearly never done much of it before. Maybe it’s the novelty, or she might just like the camaraderie. Could she be feeling lonely?”
“I wouldn’t think so. As Mrs. Alden Patterson, I’m sure her social calendar is well booked.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m glad to have her. Maybe she’ll pull in a few of her many friends and acquaintances if she keeps it all up.”
<><><>
That evening, after Carrie took off for a quick dinner with her family before Parents’ Night, Jo watched her scrapbooking students file in. Ina Mae was first, right on time, with white-haired Loralee Phillips trailing behind, carrying the large tote Jo had noticed the other night. Nearly half the size of the petite woman, it seemed to be her way of staying prepared for any and all things. The other night when Javonne mentioned having rushed over from the dental office for the wreath-making workshop without supper, Loralee had reached into her tote and pulled out a box of trail mix and a perfectly ripe banana, passing it over without a word.
Jo had learned that both Ina Mae and Loralee were widows, but that’s where any similarity seemed to end, what with Ina Mae’s power walking and active volunteerism compared to Loralee’s quieter interests. But Jo suspected Ina Mae’s strong personality complemented Loralee’s gentler one. She remembered her Great-Aunt Martha once explaining why she regularly lunched with a high-strung, chronically giggling neighbor. “I find,” she’d said, “the older I get, the less picky I am about my companions.” There was something to be said for that.
Mindy Blevins, who held the distinction of being Jo’s first customer ever, arrived next, carrying a box filled to overflowing with photos of her toddler twins. Jo speculated they would fill quite a hefty scrapbook if she intended to incorporate them all. The youngest of the group at about twenty-five or so, Mindy wore her medium brown hair pulled back in a time saving pony-tail style. The oversize shirt she wore seemed designed to cover a few extra pregnancy pounds which Jo had no doubt, with twins to chase after, she would eventually lose.
Deirdre Patterson brought up the rear, dressed more sensibly this time in dark T-shirt and jeans. She clutched a much smaller box than Mindy and wore an expression that struck Jo as more determined than eager. Deirdre clearly was still out of her element, and would need help to discover that crafting could be relaxing and fun. She greeted Jo cordially, however, as well as her fellow students, as she joined them around the work table.
Once they settled down, Jo went over the basic idea of scrapbooking to the group, then displayed the various tools available. “You don’t need a lot of these at first, and if you have basic things like a pair of sharp scissors you’ll have a good start. But these tools can help with wonderful special effects as you progress, like crimping and embossing. The first thing you need to do now, though, is decide on a theme for your scrapbook, or perhaps a separate theme for each page.”
“I can’t decide if I should do a separate book for each twin, or keep them together,” Mindy said.
“Oh, keep them together,” Loralee cried. “I’ve always loved to see identical twins in their matching outfits.”
“Separate books,” Ina Mae countered, in a firm teacher-to-parent tone. “Each child should retain his own identity.”
“You have so many photos,” Jo said, “you could probably do both. One for each of the twins, and one focusing on their twin-ness.”
“Oh, I like that!” Mindy upended her box, creating a huge mound of photos. “I’ll get started on sorting them out.”
“My goodness, you do have a lot,” Deirdre said, the expression on her face saying, "Far better you than I."
“What kind of scrapbook are you going to do?” Loralee asked Deirdre.
“I want to put together a book for Alden, to record his career in the state senate. I plan to surprise him with it for his birthday.”
“How nice.” Loralee smiled sweetly, but said no more, leading Jo to wonder if her vote during the last election might have been for Alden Patterson’s opponent.
The ladies got busy, and Jo wandered around, offering a suggestion here and there. Ina Mae, she saw, planned to do scrapbooks on her vacations, starting with a recent one to the Southwest. When Jo eventually returned to her own station, Ina Mae, barely glancing up from her work, asked, “So, what have you learned about Kyle so far?”
All the heads around the table popped up, faces full of interest. Jo wasn’t sure if she should feel touched, or pressured. Either way, they were obviously not going to let her off the hook.
Loralee explained to Mindy, who had not been at the wreath workshop, “We’ve encouraged Jo to do a little side-investigating, to supplement what the police might be doing.”
A diplomatic way of putting it, Jo thought, since what they had really hinted was that she needed to save her own skin.
“Well, I did talk to two of Kyle’s co-workers at the tennis desk,” Jo said.
“And?” Deirdre asked.
“And, neither seemed to find Kyle very likable, which was pretty much my own opinion, though I thought he might just have been having a bad day.”
“Coworkers often have the clearest view of a person,” said Ina Mae. “The best and worst of one’s character come out at the workplace.”
“Oh, I agree,” Mindy jumped in. The sorting of her photos was going slowly, as Mindy couldn’t seem to handle any snapshot without taking a long, loving gaze at it. “I once took a job working for a friend of mine in a bridal shop, more as a favor to her than anything else. Whooo, was that a mistake. I saw a side of her I never knew before. Talk about ‘bride-zillas’, she was definitely boss-zilla. When she – ”
“What,” Ina Mae interrupted, “exactly did Kyle’s coworkers say about him?”
“They claimed he did more snooping on the clientele than working, and turned every situation around there into a soap opera. He apparently felt his job there was beneath him, and that he was just marking time until his acting career took off.”
“That must have annoyed them. Do you trust their judgment?”
“I’d like to talk to a few more people at the country club, and see if I get similar stories.”
“Good idea,” Deirdre piped up. She had edged away from Mindy and her spreading project. “But since Kyle was so interested in acting, I’d check with the group at the playhouse too.”
Mindy agreed, nodding. “I know they were starting work on their next production at the playhouse, some kind of fairy tale story, I heard. Kyle must have been part of it. I bet you’d get a lot of dirt on him there.”
“Absolutely,” Deirdre said. “And,” she added, as if anticipating Jo’s question of how to approach the playhouse group, “you could offer to do a little set designing, or costume accessorizing, or something as a way in.”
“Wonderful idea, Deirdre.” Loralee fairly bounced on her seat with approval.
Jo looked at the group, dryly noting how ready they were to send her off on more expeditions with no thought as to how she was going to fit this all in to her already bulging schedule. Between minding the store, craft classes, and now the craft show to set up at the country club, Jo barely had time left, lately, to eat and sleep. But then, she reasoned, if she didn’t find a way to stretch her time now, she might have nothing to fill
it with later on.
Except, she thought wryly, making license plates.
<><><>
The group made a good start on their scrapbooks, and were packing up their materials for the night, when Jo heard Deirdre cry out an exasperated, “Shoot!”
“What’s wrong?”
“My bracelet. I took it off tonight so it wouldn’t get in my way, and now, when I tried to put it back on, I see the clasp is broken. Darn! I wanted to wear it to a lunch tomorrow.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Mindy said.
“Let me see,” Jo said, reaching for it and looking it over. “I can fix that if you like. But my jewelry tools are at home. If you want to follow me there, I can have it done in two minutes.”
“That would be so nice! Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all. Just give me a minute to close up the shop.”
The others said their good nights, and Deirdre helped Jo do a final straightening up before turning out her lights and locking up. When they left, Jo pointed out her Toyota, then led the way to the house, waving Deirdre, once she’d parked her Mercedes, into the garage.
“I’ve set up my jewelry bench in this little built-in workroom,” she explained, pulling out her keys and unlocking its door. “I think one of the owners used it for a photography dark room. It has good lighting and a lock, so I feel safe leaving my things in it.”
“How very handy. What a cute little place you have here,” Deirdre said, referring to Jo’s house.
Jo smiled, aware of her house’s shortcomings, but satisfied with the rent. “It’s comfortable,” she said. She took Deirdre’s bracelet out and got to work, removing the broken clasp and replacing it with a new one. As promised, it was finished quickly.
“Wonderful!” Deirdre cried when Jo handed it back to her. “What do I owe you for this?”
“Never mind,” Jo said. “It was my pleasure.”
Deirdre protested, but Jo waved it away. “Just bring a few friends to the craft show if you like. I want Bob Gordon to be happy with the turnout.”
“I surely will, then.” Deirdre paused, looking around. Jo got the feeling she hoped to be invited in to the house.
“Like to stay for a minute, for coffee perhaps?”
Deirdre lit up. “Maybe just a minute, if it’s not too late for you?”
It had been a long day, and Jo was feeling tired. But it wouldn’t kill her, she thought, to be a little hospitable. “We can go in through here.” Jo indicated the connecting door between the garage and her kitchen. Deirdre followed behind, as Jo flipped on lights.
“What a charming place,” Deirdre said, and Jo smiled once again, this time at the word ‘charming’. By now she was familiar with the buzzwords Real Estate people used for various properties. “Cozy fixer-upper” often translated as “run-down shack,” and “charming”, Jo thought, was code for “cheap but livable.” She hadn’t seen Deirdre’s house but could imagine something worthy of hiring a full time housekeeper to manage. Jo made no apologies for her own living situation, though. It was within her means, it kept her out of the rain and cold, and, hopefully, it was temporary.
“Regular or decaff?” Jo asked, going to her coffee cupboard.
“You know, if you have something cold, that would be great.”
“Sure.” Jo pulled open her refrigerator and looked in. “Iced tea?”
“Great. Mind if I look around? I love old places like this.”
“Not at all.” Jo poured out two glasses of tea and handed one to Deirdre. She led her to the living room
“Oh,” Deirdre cried, “you’re making a new wreath.” Jo had left her work-in-progress on the coffee table, her supplies scattered on the floor about it.
“I’m working on a prototype for the next wreath-making class. This one’s a spring wreath, and I’ll probably hang it on the Craft Corner’s front door next March or so, to freshen up the seasonal look of the store.”
“Wonderful idea. And I love what you’ve done so far with those pretty flowers – you’re so creative! I’ll have to sign up for that class, definitely.”
Jo walked her about the rest of the house, and they chatted about some of the interesting features – at least Deirdre seemed to find them interesting – of the small house, such as the built-in bookcases in the living room, still mostly bare, and the stained glass window in the powder room. Jo did like that, but would have traded it in a flash for a rust-free sink.
Jo began to wonder once more if Deirdre might be feeling a little lonely. Wasn’t her senator-husband around to go home to and chat with? Or perhaps Deirdre really did enjoy older houses. Maybe she was considering a career in real estate, or home make-overs, to fill her time. But then Deirdre glanced at her watch, and gulped down the last of her iced tea.
“This has been great, Jo, but I’d better run. Thank you so much for the tea and especially for my bracelet repair,” She set down her glass on the kitchen counter, and headed for the connecting garage door. “Good luck at the playhouse, whenever you go. I wouldn’t put it off, though. I’m betting you’ll find out some very helpful things about Kyle Sandborn while you’re there.”
“We’ll see.” Jo walked Deirdre to her car, and waved her off, watching the Mercedes drive smoothly away. At worst, Jo thought spending some time at the playhouse might help her understand Kyle a bit more, and that certainly couldn’t hurt. She wondered if she should have invited Deirdre to come along with her, but decided there was someone else in greater need of having time filled.
CHAPTER 8
Jo pulled up to the Abbotsville Playhouse, one of the boxes she had taken to the club house now repacked with samples of her jewelry and tucked snugly on the back seat floor. She had asked Charlie to come along on this Sunday afternoon, explaining that she appreciated having an extra pair of eyes and ears with her, as well as valuing his particular viewpoint. In typical Charlie fashion, he had been shruggingly agreeable.
“I spoke to the director, Rafe Rulenski on the phone,” Jo said as she cut her engine. “Besides directing this latest production, he seems to be the guy in charge, overall. Anyway, he’s interested in looking over my costume jewelry, and maybe we can learn a few more things about Kyle while we’re at it.”
“What’s the show?” Charlie asked, after glancing over at the theater whose poster windows were blank.
“It’s a musical version of Rumpelstiltskin, with a twist. It's aimed toward adults, not kids. I got the impression Rulenski wrote it himself.”
Charlie snorted, but Jo was unsure if that was a comment on the show’s subject, or Rulenski writing it. Since neither particularly concerned her, aside from the fact that fairy tale characters such as kings and queens offered an opportunity for her to load them up with sparkly jewelry, she reached for her sturdy traveling box and climbed out.
Rulenski had told her the theater would be unlocked, rehearsals would be in progress, and she could find him somewhere down front. Jo, therefore, headed for the front doors, Charlie close behind, and made her way through the small lobby, following the sound of voices. As they pushed through the inner doors, they entered upon a scene of organized chaos.
Actors recited their lines on stage while scenery builders hammered away behind them and a soloist struggled through an odd, rambling melody. Jo stood in place for a moment, letting her eyes and her brain adjust to take it all in, until she spotted a man likely to be Rafe Rulenski standing at the edge of the orchestra pit.
“Genna, sweetie, for the tenth time,” he called up to a woman on stage, “it’s Alo -WISH-shus, not A- LOY-shus.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Rulenski. I just never heard that name before, and I keep forgetting.”
“That’s the whole point, darling, that it’s an unusual name. This odd little man needs an unusual name. You wouldn’t expect it to just be Harry, do you?”
“No, Mr. Rulenski.”
Jo motioned to Charlie with a jerk of her head, and started down the sloping aisle, keeping an eye on Rulenski,
a trim, forty-ish man in black T-shirt and Levi’s. His thinning hair had been cut close, and, as he turned to consult with a young assistant, Jo saw he sported a day’s growth of beard. She had often seen that look in New York, mostly among actors, and occasionally in her and Mike’s world of artists, and had always puzzled how the beard was maintained at that level. Mike had been either clean shaven or not, with the in-between period fairly limited. How much effort, she wondered, did it take to work out the timing? Did Rulenski, for instance, have to set his alarm for 3 a.m. to get up and shave in order to have a five o’clock shadow by noon? These irrelevant thoughts ended when Rulenski caught sight of her and waved her over with a directorial crook of fingers.
“Ms. McAllister?”
“Yes. And this is my assistant, Charles Brenner.”
Rulenski gave Charlie a cursory glance, and graced him with a nod. “Have a seat, please. I’ll be finished here in a minute.”
“That’s fine.” Jo slipped into a row nearby and set her box on the seat beside her. She glanced over at Charlie, who gazed at the stage, open-mouthed, as he settled in. The female soloist at the rear seemed to have finally caught on to her song’s melody, since she now kept pace with the accompanist. The song itself, though, hadn’t improved, at least to Jo’s ears.
She listened for a while, then whispered to Charlie. “What is that she’s singing? Is it, ‘She spins, she’s cold,’ or ‘She wins the gold’?”
“I dunno. I thought she was singing in Russian.” Charlie grinned lopsidedly, and Jo stifled a laugh.
The dark-haired girl named Genna finally delivered her lines correctly, and Rulenski clapped, whether encouragingly or with sarcasm, Jo couldn’t say. He dismissed Genna and her fellow actor, then turned to Jo with world-weary eyes.
“Well, thank you for coming by, Ms. McAllister. Let’s see what you have there.”
“Call me Jo.” Jo reached for her box. “I brought several styles, since I wasn’t sure just what direction you were going.”
“At this point, I’m open to suggestions,” Rulenski sighed. “My costumers haven’t come up with anything the least bit interesting so far. Perhaps you can lead the way.”
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